there will be a baby crying

in the next room, but not yet

people are still standing around

my bed and I’m still on my last breaths

they won’t leave until I have gone

a brown leaf about to fall

 

I remember the white foam of waves

not rampaging bulls in Spanish streets

but subtle colourings of children’s books

gently paging in rippling tides by bare feet

sand on toes in fizziness

those waves, they kept on repeating

 

some are probably praying

others counting along with the clock

they stand around my bed

some I want to leave, others I want to stay with

I’ve done the fighting, I’ve done the pleading

cue the baby in the next room